Ice Run

Chapter Nine

“It was my father’s hat,” she said. “But why? Why would that old man go to all that trouble just to tell me he knew who I was?”

She finally looked up at me. It was like she was seeing the damage on my face for the first time.

“Alex.” She reached out to me. “This all happened because of me.”

“No,” I said. “Come on. It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” she said, looking back down at the photograph. “Of course it is. It was my father…”

I looked more closely at the three men-starting with the old man on the left, who had obviously worked hard his entire life, who had seen so many long Canadian winters. Then the younger man in the middle, Natalie’s father, with the big easy smile, all charm and optimism. He was stepping toward the camera, drawing the attention to himself. Then the third man.

“This man on the right,” I said.

“Albert DeMarco. My stepfather.”

I felt a sick flutter in my stomach. “The one you told me about?”

“Yes, he was my father’s best friend back then. His family lived just down the road.”

I bent down closer to look at him. “You say he’s dead now?”

“They all are,” she said. “All three of them are gone. Two of them left too soon, and Albert not soon enough.”

“Do you recognize where this picture was taken?”

“It’s right here at the house, standing out by the driveway.”

“When was it taken?”

“I don’t know exactly. I think I remember that car, though. It was still here… Years later, I mean. It was a beat-up old thing by then, just sitting in back of the barn.”

Behind the men I could just barely make out the tail end of a car. “So this must have been what, late sixties maybe?”

“Yes. Somewhere around then.”

I touched the photo where the corner was peeling away from the backing. “This is a Polaroid,” I said. “One of the early ones. The picture would come out and you had to stick it on the cardboard and smooth it out.”

She shrugged. I might as well have been talking about a box camera with the big black hood and the gunpowder flash.

“What else is here?” I said. “Any other pictures?”

She pushed open the lid on the box. “There’s all sorts of old stuff here. Pictures. Souvenirs.”

“What about these other boxes?” There were six or seven in all, lined up against the wall in this small room. Above them there were shelves with dusty old radios, lampshades, one of those old milkshake mixers with the steel canisters like you see in diners.

“More history,” she said. “Most of all this was from before I was born. God, Alex.”

“Why don’t we bring some of this stuff upstairs?”

She wiped her face on the back of her sleeve and stood up. “I’m almost afraid to. What else are we going to find?”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go up. It’s freezing down here.”

She picked up the box in front of her. I grabbed two more. I was afraid the cardboard would give way in my hands.

“This is all falling apart,” I said. “It’s a bad place to keep stuff like this.”

“I didn’t put it down here, Alex.”

“I know that. I’m just saying.”

She turned and headed for the stairs. I followed her. When we were back upstairs, I took a big breath of the warm dry air. We put the boxes down on the empty dining room table. I left her there and went back down to grab another box. It felt strange to be down there by myself.

When I picked up the box, the flimsy cardboard started to come apart. Another photograph fell out at my feet. Another faded color picture, this time of a woman’s face. I bent down, picked it up, and looked into the eyes of a woman who had to be Natalie’s mother. She was fairer than Natalie, with red hair and green eyes. This was where Natalie’s Irish side came from, to go with the dark features inherited from her father.

The woman was turned slightly sideways. She looked into the camera with a shy smile, perhaps a little too knowing at the same time. She seemed aware, most of all, that she was taking a damned good picture.

When I got back upstairs, Natalie was sitting at the dining room table, a dozen photographs spread out before her.

“Here’s some more,” I said. I took out the picture and showed it to her. “I’m guessing this is your mother.”

She put her hand to her mouth. “My God.”

“I shouldn’t even be looking at this stuff,” I said. “I mean, you should go through it yourself.”

“Look at her,” she said, ignoring me. “She was so beautiful.” She took it from me and held it in front of her.

“This was back in the sixties, too?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her first name, anyway?”

“Grace,” she said. “Her name is Grace.”

“That’s a good name.”

“God damn it, what did she do to herself?”

“Natalie, has something bad happened to her since then?”

“Just herself, mostly. Not to mention marrying Albert after my father was gone. Plus a lot of alcohol.” She put the photograph facedown on the table. “I’m sorry, I can’t even look at this now.”

“There are a couple more boxes,” I said. “I’ll go get them.”

I made two more trips to the basement. Whatever had caused such a strong reaction to seeing her mother’s picture, she seemed to put it behind her quickly. By the time I brought up the last box, she was busy sorting through all of the contents.

“I guess I was saving the basement for last,” she said. “You can see why I was dreading it.”

“Natalie, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Alex. Here, look, I found another photo from that same day.”

She showed it to me. Her father was standing in the middle of the shot again, the gray hat on his head. He had one arm around Natalie’s mother now, the other arm on his father’s back. The old man was smiling now, like he had finally given in to the occasion.

“Where’s DeMarco?” I said. “Is he taking the picture?”

“I think so. That first one must have been taken by my mother.”

“That hat…”

She shook her head. “It’s hard to believe, but I know it’s the same hat. I know it. And if Simon Grant had that hat…” She stopped.

“What?”

“Maybe he killed him, Alex. Maybe Simon Grant killed my father.”

“You can’t know that.”

“It all fits,” she said. “We never found out who did it. Now maybe I finally know.”

“Tell me again,” I said. “What do you know about how your father was killed?”

“I told you, my grandfather never talked about it. Not ever. It was my mother who told me what little I knew. He was in a bar in Michigan and somebody killed him. I think that was her way of telling me to stay away from bars. Which was kind of ironic, coming from her.”

“Nobody was ever arrested?”

“Nobody.”

I picked up the photo again.

“Natalie, didn’t you ever ask her to tell you the whole story?”

She looked up at me. “What, ask my mother?”

“Didn’t you want to know?”

“He was protecting somebody, some woman in the bar. He was just an innocent bystander. That’s what my mother said, anyway.”

“That’s all? If you wanted to find out more, couldn’t you just call her right now?”

“Alex, it’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“You gotta understand,” she said. “I can’t just call my mother and ask her something like that. Not if I really want to know the answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“She lies, Alex. Every other thing she says is an outright, complete lie. It’s her gift. It’s the reason she was put on this earth.”

“She lies even to you?”

“Especially to me. She saves her best work for me. Her masterpieces. You want an example?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s see. There were so many of them… Okay, how about this one? When I was twelve years old, when she and Albert got married, she moved out of this house and took me with her. We were living down by Toronto, in this really big house. The guy was already pretty rich by then. I’m in this huge house with a gigantic bedroom of my own and it was the absolute worst time of my life. I don’t even like to think of it now. But the one thing I had going for me was I had a dog. That was the only friend I had in the world, the whole time I was there. This little beagle mutt named Keon.”

“You named your dog Keon?”

“After Dave Keon, from the Maple Leafs. I was a big hockey fan, even back then. Anyway, one day I come home and Keon’s not there. I asked my mother where he was and she said he ran away. She gave me this whole description of him getting off the leash and her running down the street chasing after Keon, going through everybody’s backyard.”

“Let me guess. The dog didn’t really run away.”

“No, he didn’t. But it wasn’t enough for her to just tell me that lie. She had to go crazy with it. We were out there putting up posters, Alex. We put an ad in the newspaper. We were driving in the car, all over the neighborhood, me with my head out the window calling Keon’s name. We did that for five days. Until finally, the guy across the street comes over with one of the posters in his hand, and he says to my mother, ‘Hey, didn’t I see you run over a dog in your driveway?’”

“Oh, no.”

“She kept lying, Alex. She said no, that wasn’t Keon, that was another dog. And this guy was saying, ‘Well, he looked just like this dog on the poster.’ So my mother yells at him and tells him to mind his own business. But, of course, then I knew what had happened. I wasn’t an idiot. After all that time, I finally got her to admit that she had killed the dog. She says to me, ‘I didn’t want to tell you because I knew it would make you sad.’ Like going through this charade for five days was somehow better than just telling me what had happened.”

“That’s pretty bad.”

“How about one more,” she said. “When I told her about what Albert was doing to me, she promised me she’d make him stop. She promised me he’d never touch me again.”

She didn’t look up at me. She picked up a photograph and ran her fingers along the edge.

“My mother promised me, Alex. Never again, she said. Never again, my sweet little daughter. If she had to, she’d take me with her and run away forever.”

I sat there and watched her, not sure what to say. She picked up a few more photographs and sorted through them.

“I grew up with lies,” she finally said. “To this day, I cannot stand for someone to lie to me.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I’m not too crazy about lies, either.”

“If you ever lie to me, Alex-”

“Not going to happen. That’s one thing I can promise you.”

“Okay, good.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We call my mother. We take our chances.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s time to find out,” she said, picking up the original photo. Three men, almost thirty years ago. “I want to know what happened to my father.”

She got up and went to the kitchen phone. As she dialed the number, she closed her eyes like someone waiting for a bomb to go off. There was a long wait. Apparently, nobody was answering.

“Hello, mother,” she said, opening her eyes. I could tell she was talking to the answering machine now. “This is Natalie. Um, hope you’re doing okay. Give me a call. I want to ask you about something.”

She paused. She closed her eyes again.

“I saw a nice picture of you today,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later. Goodbye.”

She hung the phone up and let out a long breath.

“She’ll call you back, right?”

“Oh yes. She’ll call me back.”

I felt like holding her just then, but she went back into the kitchen. She returned with a bottle and two glasses.

“I could use a drink,” she said. “How about you?”

She poured a couple of fingers’ worth of Wild Turkey in each glass and handed one to me.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“Don’t worry, Alex. Just one, okay? It’s been a bitch of a day already.”

She kissed me on the mouth and clinked my glass with hers.

“Cheers?”

“Cheers,” I said.

I watched her take a long swallow. She made a face and put the glass on the table.

“I actually called my mother,” she said. “Without a gun to my head. Can you believe it?”

I didn’t say anything.

“This is the other thing my mother does. She drinks. After my father was gone, she and Albert would hang around all day, seeing who could get drunk first.”

“Natalie, maybe you shouldn’t-”

“My mother always had the advantage, you know? Less body weight, the liquor works faster.”

“Come on,” I said. I tried to take her glass from her. She gave me a little elbow check and took another drink.

“Here’s to mothers, eh?” Half a glass of bourbon and her Canadian accent was already getting stronger. “Which reminds me… If we want to find out more about the past, I’ve got one idea who we can talk to.”

“Who’s that?”

“You’ll see,” she said, putting her glass down. “Follow me.”

The house was next door, she said. Next door meaning the next house down the road, a half mile away. There was a path that led across the field behind the barn, then into the trees. I didn’t like the sound of a half mile hike in knee-deep snow, in the beat-up shape I was still in that day, so we took her Jeep instead.

“I’m sorry about all that,” she said as we pulled down her driveway. “Just talking about my mother, I turn into a twelve-year-old again.”

“I didn’t have a mother when I was twelve.”

“At the time, I wished I didn’t either, believe me.”

“Who’s this woman we’re gonna see?”

“Mrs. DeMarco, Albert’s mother. She’s been here forever, Alex. Practically her whole life.”

“How old is she?”

“If I’m counting right, she’s ninety-six years old now.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “I thought Simon Grant was old.”

“She blew by eighty-two a long time ago.”

“Did she know your family well?”

“Yes, the two families were pretty close. Albert and my father, they spent so much time together-they’d use that trail between the houses to meet up so they could go get in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Just kid stuff. Setting fires, shooting off guns. At least that’s what my mother told me. So God knows if any of it’s true.”

It was a short trip down the road, heading due east. The wind was still blowing, but the bright sun from that morning was long gone. More snow was on the way.

“Later on, when I was growing up,” she said, “I’d come over here a lot myself. I remember that one time, when my mother was trying to move out, I ran over here and hid, so she couldn’t take me with her.”

She pulled into the driveway. It needed a good plowing.

“I always loved Mrs. DeMarco. She was always so glad to see me. I think maybe because she didn’t have any grandchildren of her own.”

“So Albert and your mother…”

“Never had any kids of their own, no. Thank God. I can’t imagine having Albert DeMarco as your natural father.”

“But his mother still lives here in Blind River? All by herself?”

“Yes,” she said. “I was stationed up at Hearst for so long… When I came back, I was surprised to see that she was still here.”

Natalie pulled up to the house. It was another farmhouse, but about half the size of Natalie’s, and in much more need of attention. I could see from fifty feet away that all the wood on the porch was rotten. The shutters didn’t look any better. The one hanging cockeyed from the hinges was the crowning touch.

“I’ve only been here once since I’ve been back,” Natalie said. “I know I should come more often, but God, it’s so hard seeing her like this. Apparently she has this nurse who comes to check on her every afternoon, but I haven’t met her.”

“Shouldn’t she be living somewhere else now?”

“She should be, yes. Most of the time she’s sort of living in the past. I don’t think she even knows what year it is.”

“If that’s true, then is she really going to be able to answer your questions?”

“Who knows?” Natalie said. She pulled the key out of the ignition. “If her mind is really stuck in the past, maybe she’s the best person of all to tell us about it.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I got out of the Jeep with her and walked up to the front steps. It looked like someone had made a halfhearted attempt to shovel the walkway.

“The nurse must have been here,” Natalie said. She knocked on the front door and peeked inside the little window. She pushed it open and stuck her head inside.

“Hello! Mrs. DeMarco?”

I didn’t hear any response, but she pushed the door all the way in anyway and went inside. I was right behind her.

“Mrs. DeMarco?”

I was expecting a shambles, based on the way the place looked from the outside, but it was surprisingly neat and well ordered. We passed a set of stairs with a great polished railing, an antique phone table next to the stairs, a faded Oriental rug over hardwood floors, then another larger rug as the hallway opened into the living room. There was more old furniture in fairly good shape, a sofa that probably would have been called a divan, and a long chair that I’d guess you’d call a settee. Stuff so old even the names had been retired. There were white lace curtains on the windows and a pair of portraits on the walls in oval frames. A man and a woman, taken a hell of a long time ago. The air was warm, and smelled of mothballs and something medicinal like liniment.

“Is that you again, Flo?” A woman came into the room from the kitchen, moving slowly. She was wearing a quilted robe and slippers. She looked all of ninety-six years, and maybe seventy pounds, if that. But what the hell. If you’re still on your feet at ninety-six, you’re doing pretty damned well.

“It’s me, Mrs. DeMarco. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

She came closer to us, holding on tight to the back of the chair. “Where did she go now, eh?” She certainly sounded like a lifelong Canadian.

“Mrs. DeMarco, this is my friend Alex,” Natalie said. “We’ve both come to visit you.”

She came closer. When I bent down to shake her hand, she stared into my face. Her thick glasses magnified her pale blue eyes, and her white hair was pinned up on her head. Around her neck was a long silver necklace with what looked to be one of those medical alert tags. One push on the button and the ambulance would be on its way, although way the hell up here, I couldn’t imagine how long it would take to show up.

“Alex?” she said. “Is that your name?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I took her right hand carefully in mine.

“That’s a good name,” she said. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s a long story, ma’am.”

“My son is named Albert. That’s close to Alex.”

“Alex and I would like to ask you a couple of questions,” Natalie said. “Would that be all right?”

“Of course, dear.” She put her hand on Natalie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me your name.”

“I’m Natalie.”

“Natalie! There’s a little girl next door named Natalie. Her grandparents are dear friends of mine.”

Natalie closed her eyes for a moment. She cleared her throat. “Mrs. DeMarco, I wonder if I can ask you something.”

“Please sit down, eh? Can I get you anything?”

“No, please,” Natalie said. “Let me. Have you eaten lunch yet?”

“Oh yes. Flo was here before. She comes every day.”

“Your nurse, you mean? I thought her name was Celia. When I was here before, remember? You told me her name was-”

“She’s the woman who comes over every day. Her name is Flo.”

Natalie took her by the hand and led her to the couch. “Are you sure I can’t get you something else? Maybe some tea?”

“No, I’m fine, dear. But thank you.”

She took her time sitting herself down on the couch. I offered my hand to her, but she waved me away.

“Sit down,” she said. “Please.”

I sat down next to her. Natalie knelt down on the floor.

“Mrs. DeMarco, you do remember me, right? I came over to visit you a couple of weeks ago.”

“You didn’t have your friend with you then,” she said, looking at me. “Him I’d remember.”

“No,” Natalie said. “Alex wasn’t with me.”

“You’ve got to learn how to duck, young man.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that. It had been a long time since someone referred to me as a young man.

“We have a question to ask you,” Natalie said. “It might seem kind of silly. Are you ready?”

“Yes, dear. Go ahead, eh?”

Natalie took the photograph out of her coat pocket. “Can you see this picture all right?”

Mrs. DeMarco took it from her and held it a few inches from her face. “Can you turn on that lamp, dear?”

Natalie reached over and pulled the cord on the tassel-shaded lamp on the end table. “Is that better?”

Mrs. DeMarco squinted and moved the picture back and forth a little bit. “Is that snow on the ground?”

“No, I think this was taken during the summer.”

“I remember that hat,” she said.

Natalie looked at me. “The hat? You remember it?”

“That was an expensive hat, eh? You have to take good care of a hat like that.”

“Were you here in the yard the day this was taken?”

“How much snow is there?” she said, looking closer. “This is right before New Year’s Eve.”

“No, Mrs. DeMarco-”

“I told them, New Year’s Eve you should spend with your family, eh? You shouldn’t be going out all night like that.”

“Mrs. DeMarco, I don’t understand. What New Year’s Eve are you talking about?”

“There wasn’t much snow, eh? It was a strange winter. And them going down there like that. There was no reason for it. You shouldn’t be away from home on New Year’s Eve. It gave me a bad feeling, you know. A woman knows these things.”

“Down there? Where’s down there?”

“It’s bad business. Any fool knows that, eh?”

“What’s the bad business about, Mrs. DeMarco? Can you tell me?”

“New Year’s Eve,” she said. “Of all the nights in the year, eh?”

“What happened on New Year’s Eve?”

Mrs. DeMarco looked at the picture again. “Luc Reynaud certainly knows how to wear a suit,” she said. “Who are these other men?”

“That’s my father,” Natalie said.

Mrs. DeMarco looked at her, shaking her head in confusion.

“Your father, dear?”

“I mean to say, this is Jean Reynaud.”

“No, dear. Jean’s just a little thing.”

“The other man was…” Natalie stopped. What could she say? Your dead son?

“Where did he go now?” Mrs. DeMarco said, looking around the room.

“Who, Mrs. DeMarco?”

“Albert. He’s always getting into things.”

“I don’t know,” Natalie said, blinking. “I don’t think he’s here.”

Mrs. DeMarco turned to me. “What was your name? Alvin?”

“Alex, ma’am.”

“Have you seen my son?”

“No, ma’am. I haven’t.”

“If you do, will you bring him home?”

I looked at Natalie. “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

“Good,” she said. She patted me on the hand. “You’re a good boy. You shouldn’t get into fights, though. It’s not a smart thing to do, eh?”

“You’re right about that,” I said.

We sat with her for a few more minutes. It was obvious she wasn’t going to talk any more about the hat or anything else from the past. She was getting tired, too, so we made our goodbyes and promised her that we’d come back again soon. She made Natalie promise to say hello to the Reynauds next door if she saw them, and she made me promise to keep an eye out for her son. And to not get into any more fights.

Natalie wrote out a note to the day nurse, asking her to call her. Then we left. The air felt painful after the warmth of the house.

“That was bad,” Natalie said as she got into the Jeep.

“I know.”

“I’ve got to do something to help her. I can’t just leave her in that house like that.”

“Isn’t there somebody you can talk to?”

She shook her head. “She doesn’t have any family left, Alex. And she doesn’t even know it.”

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. She started up the Jeep and backed it down the driveway. When she was on the road, she gunned it and drove west, past her own driveway.

“Let me guess,” I said. “We’re going to Michigan now?”

“You up for it?”

“Yep.”

She nodded her head and kept driving. She didn’t say anything else for a while. The snow started to fall.

“Mrs. DeMarco couldn’t help us,” she finally said. “But I am going to find out. I want to know what happened.”

“If this man really did kill your father,” I said, “this Simon Grant, the man with the hat…”

“I know, Alex. They just buried him.”

“I’m just saying-”

“He’s gone now. I can’t touch him, I know. But I still have to find out.”

I heard the determination in her voice. It was something I recognized, the same thing that would be driving me if I were in her place. She’d have no peace until she got her answer.

I wanted to help her. I wanted to watch her back, wherever this thing would take her. And of course I wouldn’t mind finding out some answers myself. Why the hell I got triple-teamed behind the church, for starters.

I wasn’t quite sure where we’d begin, but I did know one thing. Sooner or later, we’d end up spending some more time with the Grant family.